The Long, Dark ‘Fortnite’ of the Soul

When It Comes to Birthday Wishes, There’s More than One Way to Be a Gamer

Fortnite | Photo: Courtesy

In an exciting break from my standard mental programming as of late (which is to say, worries about the loss of items such as democracy, sanity, all hope, and any gains on my 401K), I found welcome respite when I suddenly found myself worrying that my child was up to no good.

At drop-off one rainy day, I was greeted by one of his best friends, who ran up to me in excitement to ask, “Can I get R Fortnite for his birthday?” I looked to R, my perfect precious human, and saw conspiratorial guilt written all over his reddening face.

“No way!” I said. “Or, I mean, you can, but we won’t let him play it.”

I kissed R, who told me I was mean, and drove away, smarting as my brain spun. As is usual, it went from point A (Did R tell his friend to get him that game because we have said no, and this seemed a way around us and our annoying rules?) to point B (OMG, is he a sociopath?) with great speed and only the briefest pit stop at point A4 (does he even know what Fortnite is?).

Throughout the day the Fortnite Situation would pop back into my consciousness. I would wonder if it required further addressing. I would wonder if R was a sociopath. I would wonder if I had somehow and completely failed at parenting to such a degree that I might as well give him Ding Dongs for dinner and the keys to my car.

And then a memory came to me: 1987, elementary school, where the classes were small and the uniforms itchy. My birthday — and my birthday party — was rapidly approaching. One morning, my parents asked me what I wanted.

“Licensed to Ill,” I replied, mouth full of Cheerios.

“Absolutely not!” my mother said. “I just read about the Beastie Boys. They’re misogynists.”

Screaming ensued. And while words were flying, I managed not to let on that I had no idea what misogynist meant, as I somehow understood that doing so might further weaken my position.

‘License to Ill’ by the Beastie Boys | Photo: Courtesy

When I returned home that day, my mom, smug, announced that she had found the weekend pages of the San Francisco Chronicle, which contained the review of the Beastie Boys’ recent performance that had poisoned her heart against them.

As I recall, the piece was not entirely focused on the Beastie Boys, as they were merely the opener, and the headliner — a girl called Madonna — was far bigger news. I do remember that the story pearl-clutchingly lamented their crassness, their lyrics (“Girls! To do the laundry!”), their stage design. (This time, curiosity bested my desire to play it cool: “Mom, what’s a phallus?” I asked, looking up. “A giant penis,” she replied. “I rest my case.”)

Naturally, I became even more desperate to get my hands on the contraband.

The next day at school, my friend Kimberly asked me what I wanted for my birthday.

“Licensed to Ill,” I replied.

And that weekend at the neighborhood pool, I unwrapped it — on vinyl — and whooped with glee. Apparently, Kimberly’s mom was not a reader of the concert reviews.

Later, my mom asked me if I’d asked Kimberly to get the album for me.

“You never said someone else couldn’t give it to me,” I said.

She shook her head, but I could tell she was amused.

I had won.

I played that record on repeat, and while she’d never admit it, I think it likely that, somewhere near the 300th spin, my mother might have begun to open herself to the charms of “Brass Monkey.”

Or not.

There is no moral to this story, but recalling my own tryst with gifting sneakiness made me far more sympathetic to my son’s (not to mention far less likely to label it sociopathy). And hey, just look at how well my Beastie Boys story turned out — I got what I wanted and managed to become a raging feminist anyway, and the band is now regarded as one of the most innovative of all time, which I like to think proves something about my excellent taste and ability to sniff out genius in its most nascent form.

I can offer no parallels with Fortnite; you’ll not find me proclaiming that, what do you know, the game does offer some worthwhile takeaways and will in time be considered genius. I have not come to the realization that just because a kid has heard of a thing, they should then enjoy access to it. I cannot report back from the future about how engaging with the game had no effect at all on my child’s mental, emotional, or physical health. Nor can I say that, though I remain opposed to the game and all I believe it to represent, I have enjoyed some special bonding time with my son while engaged in a vibrant match, so at least there is that, and that is not nothing.

Perhaps someday I will say such things. But not yet. For the birthday has come and gone, and that friend of his didn’t get him Fortnite, after all.

About the Author: A Pushcart Prize nominee, Shannon Kelley’s work has appeared in Elle, The Washington Post, Vogue, Aeon, and others. When not busy momming or working her day job at the Santa Barbara International Film Festival, she can be found cooking, reading, or putting the finishing touches on her debut novel. She writes about books very irregularly at shannonkelley.substack.com.